


Tear Down the Slaughter-house

by skoosiepants



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Character Death, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-05
Updated: 2008-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-11 04:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skoosiepants/pseuds/skoosiepants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Later, it'll probably tear him up inside, but he doesn't say no. He opens his mouth and gropes for the button on Spencer's jeans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tear Down the Slaughter-house

**Author's Note:**

> Huge, mammoth thanks go to insunshine for the awesome beta and encouragement. Title is a reference to Reuben Bright by EAR. I just sort of stumbled into this story, so I hope you like it.
> 
> [download the soundtrack](http://community.livejournal.com/muse_to_match/5190.html)

Brendon isn’t surprised when Haley opens the door for him, not really. He holds himself awkwardly, though, shifts his bag higher up on his shoulder, stuffs a hand into his front pocket. “Um.”

She rolls her eyes. “Come on,” she says, and pulls him into a hug.

He slips an arm around her waist. She smells like something spicy, something new, and he can feel her smile against his cheek.

“We’re good,” she says, whispers.

He nods, squeezes her close. “Okay.”

She’s wiping at her eyes when they break apart and she picks up a duffle, waving him off when he tries to help. She just says, “He’s out back.”

Brendon nods again, and then she takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders and leaves.

He closes the door and locks it behind her.

Brendon stands in the kitchen, stands and stares at the sleek appliances, the granite countertops, battered bag slowly sliding down his arm to drop in a dusty heap on the marble tiles, and he wonders for maybe the fiftieth time since landing what the hell he’s doing there.

He tugs his phone out of his pocket and texts Jon: _im here_

The reply is almost immediate, and Brendon grins.

_yay for notdying_

_yep_, he writes, and, _call u later_.

He leaves the cell on the counter, leaves his bag right by the door, then walks back through the den, the familiar path towards the sliding glass door that opens up onto the backyard, the pool.

It hasn’t been all that long. Two years, maybe, but it seems longer. Seems like the days stretched on forever in Kauai, the pace slowed down to a hot, lazy crawl. The damp air and blossoms relaxing in a way the desert never had been. Given enough time, given Ang and Jon and the girls, well. Brendon had maybe slowed down a little, too.

Spencer doesn’t look up when Brendon slides the door open, but he does when Brendon says, “Hey.”

His eyes widen for a split-second, startled, before going blank, before his face pales a little and lines tighten around his mouth. “Brendon.”

“Hi, yeah.” Brendon waves. He grins, because Spencer’s baby-faced again, smooth-skinned and young looking.

A small black bear charges at him from the far side of the yard, barking his head off, and Brendon even laughs when he jumps up to lick at his face.

Spencer gets up off the plastic lounger, grabbing for his collar. “Lem, no,” he says. “Get down, shit, sorry, he’s sort of—sorry.”

Spencer’s got his arms around a squirming Lem, and Lem’s still got both his paws on Brendon’s chest, and Spencer’s face is so close to Brendon’s and Brendon can’t stop smiling.

“Hi,” Brendon says again, and this time Spencer grins back, his whole face lighting up, hair a mess along his forehead, his flushed cheeks.

“Brendon,” he says. “Hi.”

*

They order pizza and stay up late and don’t get drunk. Brendon’s a little buzzed from the beer, maybe, sprawled on the den couch, Lem’s big head in his lap, eyes imploring.

“I think Lem needs to go out,” Brendon says.

Spencer doesn’t answer, and Brendon catches the soft curve of his jaw, the fall of his eyelashes light on his cheek, head tipped slightly away. He isn’t snoring. Spencer always used to snore, but Brendon doesn’t call him on it. Just staggers tiredly to his feet and follows Lem back towards the door.

He flips the patio light on, curls his fingers over his arms, across his chest, and tips his forehead onto the cool glass as he waits for Lem to finish.

It feels good, even if he misses Little Heaven, misses the girls and Jon.

He doesn’t even flinch when Spencer fits his hands over his hips, leans into him from behind, rests his chin on Brendon’s shoulder. Brendon goes a little stiff, though, when Spencer noses his cheek, tightens his grip, because he’s never been very good at telling Spencer no, and he’s pretty sure he can’t do this.

Spencer just breathes. His dry lips brush Brendon’s skin lightly and then he steps away.

Brendon looks over at him, and Spencer wraps a hand over his own nape, elbow high. He stares out across the half-lit yard.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Spencer says finally. “I know that—I mean, Haley must have.” He shrugs. “I’m just glad.”

Brendon smiles a little, presses his fingertips over Spencer’s reflection in the glass. “Me too,” he says, and he really means it. Really fucking means it, and he’d say more, but there’s something thick wedged in his throat.

*

Spencer’s at the counter making coffee when Brendon stumbles downstairs the next morning, standing in striped pajama pants and an old t-shirt, one Brendon recognizes, but can’t exactly place from where.

And then he spots Ryan at the kitchen table, hands neatly folded over a placemat, staring at him, and that would be something normal, something expected even, except Ryan’s been dead for over two years.

“Fuck,” Brendon says, bangs his elbow on the doorframe scrambling backwards.

Spencer turns around, mug cupped between his hands. “What?”

“Uh.” _Ryan fucking Ross is sitting at your table_, Brendon wants to yell, but then he blinks and Ryan’s gone. Fuck. Brendon rubs a hand over his face. “Nothing,” he says. Fucking Vegas and fucking hallucinations. There are too many memories, too much bad and too much good, and Spencer’s maybe the reason he’d left, but Ryan’s maybe the reason he’s stayed away.

Spencer gives him a soft sleepy smile, and Brendon’s heart skips a beat, drops into his stomach.

“Breakfast?” Spencer asks.

“Yeah,” Brendon says. He carefully skirts the table and takes down a mug from the cabinet.

Spencer makes eggs and Brendon makes toast, and he tries not to think about where Spencer’s sitting, the position of his hands on the placemat when he pushes his half-clean plate away, and how if he squints a little he can still see the faint outline of Ryan, the dip of his head as he stares right through Spencer and grins.

*

The list of things Brendon and Spencer don’t or won’t or can’t talk about is pretty long. Or maybe not long, exactly, but _dense_, because they won’t talk about Ryan, and they aren’t talking about Jon or Haley, and that right there is their past and present.

_do u believe in ghosts_, Brendon texts Jon.

_is spence lettin u watch ghost hunters?_

Brendon laughs. _no_

Spencer’s head snaps up from the other end of the couch. “What’s funny?” he asks, another grin playing around his mouth, and Brendon shakes his head, says, “It’s just Jon,” without really thinking about it.

Spencer’s face falls blank, but he says, “We can—how is he?”

Brendon pushes – Brendon’s really good at pushing, he thinks maybe that’s how this whole mess started – and he moves closer and says, “Good.” He grabs Spencer’s hand, laces their fingers together. “He misses you.”

Spencer squeezes Brendon’s fingers. “Bren—”

“He wasn’t the one who stopped calling, Spence,” Brendon says, because he’s not going to let Spencer blame _Jon_. Jon, who didn’t give up for months, who would’ve held on longer if Angie hadn’t asked him to stop – stop torturing himself, stop hanging up the phone depressed and miserable. “He’s married.”

Spencer nods, says thickly, “Yeah.”

“He’s got two little stepdaughters.” Brendon shifts up, digs out his wallet, and flips it open to reveal the two girls, gap-toothed with shiny black hair and big brown eyes.

Spencer traces a finger over their faces, murmurs, “Who carries pictures around in their wallet anymore?”

“Favorite uncles, that’s who,” Brendon says, grinning. Sometimes, when it’s just Brendon and the girls—sometimes he thinks that’s enough.

*

Brendon doesn’t really remember the phone call, doesn’t remember the specifics beyond the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, the way Spencer’s voice had been a harsh whisper. He remembers thinking _no_, and he remembers the tight, almost painful curl of his fingers around his cell.

After Ryan’s accident, Jon had flown in from Hawaii and stayed with Brendon and fought with Spencer.

Brendon still doesn’t know what happened, exactly. He only knows that Jon had tried to apologize and Spencer hadn’t let him.

*

Brendon’s been living in Spencer’s guest room for three days when he wakes up and finds that his bag had apparently exploded in the middle of the night. Like, literally exploded, bits of worn beige canvas everywhere. Clothes, thankfully still mostly whole, are scattered all over the floor, and Spencer ducks his head in the room just as Brendon’s tugging on a pair of jeans.

“Do you want—Christ, Brendon, what the hell did you do in here?” Spencer asks, and Brendon chokes off a laugh, because he didn’t do _anything_.

He says, “Just making myself comfortable,” though, and Spencer arches an eyebrow at him.

“Okay,” he says. “Want to go out for breakfast?”

Brendon nods. “Gimme a minute.”

Spencer leaves and Brendon sinks down to the floor and drops his head in his hands, knees pulled up. Maybe he sleepwalked. Maybe he’s going totally fucking crazy, right?

He digs his palms into his eye sockets, sighs, then drags himself to his feet, changes his shirt and pulls on a hoodie.

He thinks, _okay, so maybe I’m being haunted by Ryan’s angry ghost_, and he tries to laugh, but it isn’t fucking funny.

*

Spencer hasn’t outright asked Brendon what he’s doing there, and Brendon’s glad, because he seriously has no clue.

Haley had called Jon. She’d called Jon and they’d talked for hours, and then Jon had asked Brendon to go, and Brendon has just as much trouble saying no to Jon as he does to Spencer, but for entirely different reasons.

So Brendon knows Haley’s leaving Spencer, has already left him, and he knows that Jon may have a big forgiving heart, but Spencer’s gonna have to make the first move there, and he knows that he, Brendon, is a complete fucking sucker for Spencer Smith.

And the funny thing is, the really terribly _un_funny thing is that maybe none of this would’ve happened if Brendon had exercised a little self control; if he hadn’t let Spencer fuck him after Ryan’s fucking funeral, fuck.

Brendon’s eyes start to sting, and he stares blindly down at the laminated IHOP menu.

Spencer nudges his feet. “Pancakes?”

Brendon sniffs, plays it off with a smile, nods. “Pancakes. Lots of fucking pancakes and, like, whip cream and chocolate sauce.”

Spencer wrinkles his nose, because he’s a pancake purest, even though he always steals bites of Brendon’s awesome concoctions.

After they order, Brendon sips his coffee and looks out the window, watches the cars, the morning commute, because it’s, like, eight a.m. and Brendon started waking up early right around the time he started not having anything to wake up for. He figures maybe Spencer did, too.

Brendon’s cell rings and Brendon doesn’t answer it, because it’s Jon. He really, really wants to talk to Jon, but not in the middle of an IHOP, sitting across from Spencer. Brendon smiles, though, can’t help it, and says, “Jon.”

Spencer nods. “You can take that, you know.”

“I know.” Brendon feels like his skin’s stretched tight, like his edges are brittle, but he’s pretty sure it’s just the dry desert air.

*

He’s sitting at the edge of Spencer’s pool, feet dangling in the water, and he’s grinning so hard as he listens to Jon’s voicemail. Jon puts the girls on. It’s early, early morning, before sunrise there, and they sing him _Gaston_ and Brendon’s heart pounds in his chest and it’s weird, because their voices make him feel a little less homesick.

*

Spencer wears dress pants when he goes to work. Brendon has no idea what he does, but it’s something for Pete, and Brendon’s not all that interested in details.

Brendon’s a thirty-five-year-old retired rock star. He lives in a bungalow behind Jon’s house and occasionally helps Jon and Tom with their photo shoots.

Brendon hasn’t bought a new pair of jeans since way before he moved to Hanalei, and the knees are starting to go. The pockets are white, the hems frayed, loops of denim catching under his heels.

He’s not used to wearing shoes. Essentially, he’s a total fucking beach bum.

When Spencer goes to work for the first time in a week – Brendon’s not sure if he stayed home because of Brendon or Haley, but he doesn’t think it matters - he borrows one of Spencer’s cars and drives to his sister’s house. He calls her from her front porch when no one opens the door. Her cell’s turned off, and he leaves a message. He says, “Hi, it’s me,” and, “Just checking in,” and he doesn’t say he’s in town.

He settles on her porch swing for a while, shucks his flip-flops and pushes off with his toes, rocking it slowly. He should call his mom. He doesn’t, but he should.

He doesn’t feel like being fussed over.

*

Brendon sits cross-legged in the middle of Spencer’s den floor and talks to Ryan. He says, “So.”

He says, “So, you’re mad at me.”

He feels ridiculous, because nothing happens.

Lem cocks his big triangular head, ears pricked.

The buzzer on the oven goes off.

*

“You cooked,” Spencer says, sounding surprised.

“I’m a pretty decent chef,” Brendon says. Spencer didn’t have much to work with, but he’d managed something simple. They’ve been living on takeout and breakfast food for days.

Spencer peers into the oven. “Actually, I don’t know if noodle casserole counts as cooking.”

Brendon jabs a finger at him. “Casserole layering is precise work, Spence.”

“Yeah.” Spencer smiles, but he looks tired, and Brendon shoos him away, tugs on his tie to loosen it as he’s pushing on his chest, backing him out of the kitchen, and he has _no idea_ why Spencer’s wearing a tie. He really doesn’t think Pete would care.

“Seriously, a tie?” Brendon asks, but when Spencer opens his mouth to answer he cuts him off with, “You know what, never mind. Go, relax, entertain Lem for a while.”

Spencer’s eyebrows go up. “Okay,” he says, and obediently disappears into the den.

Brendon hangs in the doorway for a second, listens to the jangle of Lem’s collar, the low hum of Spencer’s voice as he greets him. He hears the sliding glass door open and then turns back to the oven.

Whatever this is, whatever is going on, it almost feels normal.

*

Brendon wakes up in the middle of the night. Wide-awake, not sleep-blurred at all, and he doesn’t know why until he spots Ryan at the foot of his bed. It’s fucking freaky and Brendon’s fingers clench in his sheets and Ryan’s just _standing there_.

He’s gray in the darkness, the only light the spill from the high full moon through the double windows, leaving his eyes big and black and half his face hidden in shadows.

Brendon breathes through his nose and tries not to panic. Lem doesn’t even twitch from his sprawl across the other side of the bed, and aren’t dogs supposed to sense fucking ghosts or whatever?

“Um.” Brendon watches as Ryan turns and moves towards the door and fades away. “Um. What the fuck?”

Lem lifts his head to look at him.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Brendon says to him. He stares at the ceiling for god knows how long, then slips out of bed. Lem snorts and rolls over until he’s snug in the warm spot, and Brendon makes his way downstairs.

There’s a light on in the kitchen. Not the overhead light, but a soft one, and Brendon yawns and scratches his belly and leans against the jamb, watching Spencer sip coffee, an ugly as hell rooster lamp plugged in on the island counter.

“Redecorating?” Brendon asks, even though he recognizes the lamp. Ryan had fucking loved that lamp, because Ryan’s awesome and he knows—knew how to _decorate_.

Spencer looks uncomfortable for a second, but not surprised to see him. He shifts on his seat, slumps down further and kicks out the chair across from him.

Brendon pours himself a cup of coffee before he sits. He leans forward on his elbows and watches Spencer expectantly.

Spencer just shrugs. “It just.” He rubs a hand over his forehead. “It’s cool,” Spencer says, but Brendon’s ninety-nine percent certain that isn’t what he was going to say.

He doesn’t call him on it, though, just bobs his head.

Brendon doesn’t drink his coffee. He curls his hands around the hot mug and stares down at the table and listens to Spencer breathe and his shoulders get tenser and tenser, like Spencer’s uneasiness is bleeding into his own.

Brendon says, “Spencer—” just as Spencer says, “I—” and Brendon’s fingers tighten on his mug.

“I’m going to bed,” Spencer says.

Brendon nods, mute. He bites his lip and watches Spencer pour the rest of his coffee down the drain, watches him walk out of the kitchen without looking at him, and that’s totally okay.

Brendon isn’t really sure what he’d been going to say, anyway.

*

Lem is like a mutant Lab. He’s huge and he thinks he’s a lap dog, and Brendon’s legs are starting to go numb.

“Spencer, Spencer Smith, my legs are going numb,” Brendon says. He makes grabby hands at Spencer as he passes behind the couch.

“That’s what you get for letting him up on the furniture,” Spencer says. He’s totally unsympathetic.

In the meantime, Brendon’s legs are going to have to be _amputated_, seriously. “He gave me puppy eyes! How can you resist them?” He tries to wiggle out from under him, but Lem weighs, like, eight hundred pounds. “Oh my god, I’m dying.”

Spencer rolls his eyes. He snaps his fingers, says, “Lem, out,” and Lem twists up so fast Brendon yelps and rolls off the couch with him, landing on his face.

He hears the door slid open.

He sees Spencer’s shoes stop next to his head.

Spencer hunkers down and pokes at his shoulder. “You okay?”

“I’m awesome,” Brendon groans, rolling onto his back. His nose hurts.

“Yep. Real graceful, too.” Spencer grins at him, then reaches for his hand and helps him to his feet.

Brendon’s legs are still a little wobbly, pins and needles racing through his nerves, and he stumbles, catching Spencer’s elbows to keep upright. “Whoa.”

Spencer tightens his grip on his hand. He says, “Hey,” softly, and Brendon tips his head back, licks his lips.

Spencer is looking at his mouth. His eyelashes are at half mast, eyes shadowed dark.

Brendon breathes, “Hi,” and lets Spencer kiss him.

*

Brendon doesn’t say no when Spencer slips his hands up under his shirt.

He doesn’t say it when Spencer says, “Come on,” against his lips, a desperate, breathy plea.

He _should_ say it, he knows that, because he’s been in love with Spencer for years and this won’t mean the same to both of them.

Later, it’ll probably tear him up inside, but he doesn’t say no. He opens his mouth and gropes for the button on Spencer’s jeans.

*

Spencer has his head in his hands, perched on the edge of the coffee table, and Brendon has seen that before, knows it’s not a good sign.

Brendon also can’t find his fucking shirt. It, like, completely disappeared or the couch ate it or something, and it’s really kind of awkward, since Spencer’s fully dressed again and freaking out or whatever and Brendon’s shirtless.

He thinks _fuck it_ and crosses his arms over his bare chest. “Spencer?”

Spencer doesn’t say anything. He slides his hands into his hair, head hanging. And then he says, voice thick, “Sorry.”

It’s not cold, but Brendon feels a chill trip down his spine, bites his fingers into the skin of his biceps. He says, “Yeah, okay,” and then goes up to his room to find a damn shirt.

*

Jon asks, “When are you coming home?” and Brendon can hear the girls in the background, can hear them laughing. Thing One and Thing Two, Jon calls them when they’re stirring up trouble.

Brendon says, “Soon.”

*

Spencer avoids Brendon for three days. It’s a pretty spectacular feat, considering the house isn’t that big, and Brendon basically has nothing to do but get in Spencer’s way.

Spencer’s sneaky, though, and even though Brendon’s bored out of his mind, he let’s Spencer do his thing. Wallow in regret or guilt or whatever. Brendon isn’t exactly seeking him out, either, doesn’t exactly want to find out how Spencer’s going to look at him now, what his eyes are going to say.

On the third day, Spencer knocks on Brendon’s bedroom door. It’s half open already, and he pushes it all the way with his foot, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“I talked to Jon,” he says.

“That’s.” Brendon can’t help his grin, even if his mouth feels tired. “That’s awesome, Spence.”

Spencer ducks his head. “Yeah.” He forces out a short laugh, more air than sound. “Yeah, so. Why are you here?”

Brendon blinks. He swallows hard, feels like a fist is closing around his heart. He’s not sure what to say. More importantly, he’s not sure what Spencer wants him to say. “I, um. Jon asked me to come.”

Spencer doesn’t look at him. “Right,” he says, staring past him out the window. “Jon.”

*

Brendon can’t find his favorite shirt and he’s starting to get pissed. It’s an old one he’d stolen from Ryan, and it’s just the right kind of soft, and Brendon isn’t leaving without it. It’s not like it just fucking walked off by itself or something – it has to be somewhere in the house.

He sits in the middle of Spencer’s den and says, “I want my shirt back,” and the silence is, like, mocking him.

He says, “Seriously,” palms pressed down over his knees, fingers white-knuckled.

He says, “Goddamn it, Ryan,” and he blinks rapidly, eyes prickling with tears, because he wants his fucking shirt back. “I don’t know what your prob—”

“Brendon?”

Brendon freezes. He turns his head away, shrugging a shoulder up to wipe at the corner of his eye. “Uh,” he finally says, looking over at Spencer hanging in the doorway. “Hi?”

Spencer’s lips purse. “Who were you talking to?”

Brendon is certain that telling Spencer he thinks Ryan Ross is haunting his house is a bad idea. “No one. Myself. Lem?”

Spencer’s eyes narrow. “Okay.”

“Yeah.” Brendon nods and gets to his feet, swiping off his knees. He rubs at the thin skin under his eyes. “I’m—”

“Brendon.”

Brendon says, “I should just—”

“Do you—do you want to go out for dinner?”

*

The restaurant is low lit and Thai.

“You don’t have to sweet talk me into bed, Spencer. We both know I’m easy.” Brendon maybe sounds a little bitter, but he thinks it’s justified.

Spencer grimaces. He folds his hands on the tabletop and drops his gaze and doesn’t say anything.

Brendon says, “So I’m thinking I should go.”

Spencer nods, fiddles with his spoon. “All right.”

Brendon doesn’t know what he’d been expecting, but some emotion might have been nice. He curls into himself a little, fists his hands on his thighs under the table.

Then Spencer glances up and their eyes catch and something flickers over them that makes Brendon’s breath hitch. It’s gone before he can figure out what the hell it even _was_, but his neck heats, spreads a flush over his face.

Before he can stop himself, Brendon asks, “What did Jon say?” He hadn’t planned on asking that. It’s none of his business, because Jon never talks about whatever they fought over in the first place.

Spencer’s mouth twitches. “He called me a dick.”

“You are.”

“He said he was sorry,” Spencer goes on, lips turning up into a full smile, “and that I had to get my ass on a plane to come see him.”

Brendon nods. That sounds like Jon. Spencer makes the first move, and then Jon makes, like, twelve. “You should definitely visit,” he says. He means it. He wants Spencer there, no matter how weird things are between them.

Spencer grins wider. “Yeah? Yeah, I might.”

*

Brendon wakes up with a heavy weight on his chest. He wakes up gasping for breath, and his first thought is Lem, but Lem isn’t on the bed with him.

He struggles upright, both hands pressed against the pressure over his heart, and he’s shaking. His whole body is trembling and clammy, and he pants, “Shit, shit,” before stumbling out of bed and slamming a clumsy hand over the light switch.

The harsh overhead light chases all the shadows back, but it doesn’t make Brendon feel any better.

He doesn’t really think about it when he crosses the hall to Spencer’s room. He barely resists the urge to flip on Spencer’s light too, but he just sneaks close to Spencer’s bed and hisses, “Spence,” and, “Wake up.”

Brendon starts a little when Spencer says clearly, “I’m awake, Brendon.”

“Oh,” Brendon says. “Oh, okay.”

“What’s wrong?”

As Brendon’s eyes adjust to the dark again, he sees Spencer up on his elbows, eyes catching just the slightest light from the hallway, the light Brendon left on in his room. Brendon says, “Bad dream,” and Spencer huffs a small laugh.

Brendon doesn’t ask. He just clambers up onto the bed next to Spencer and twists the blankets over him like a burrito.

Spencer says, “Brendon,” exasperation bleeding into his voice.

Brendon says, “I know,” quiet.

Spencer sighs. He moves around until he’s on his side, and Brendon curls over too, and he can feel Spencer’s warm breath ghosting across his mouth.

*

Brendon’s got his head tucked under Spencer’s chin, fingers clutching his shirt, mouth open over his collarbone. He stays there for a long moment. He knows Spencer’s awake, can feel the rapid beating of his heart against his knuckles.

When he slowly pulls away, though, Spencer’s eyes are still closed.

Brendon lets himself brush a thumb over Spencer’s lower lip, then he carefully untangles the sheets and slips out of bed.

*

Brendon sticks his feet in the pool without rolling up his jeans, and the wetness seeps up his calves, slowly turning the denim heavy and dark.

He texts Jon: _im coming home_

Jon sends back, _good_, and, _did u tell spence ur in love withhim_, and Brendon fumbles his cell and drops it into the water. His heart is in his throat as he watches it sink all the way to the bottom.

Brendon’s debating going in after it when Spencer looms over him, blocking the late morning sun.

Brendon squints up at him. Backlit, he can’t see Spencer’s expression, and Brendon shifts a little, rests his hands flat on his thighs.

“Jon says you—is that your cell in the pool?” Spencer asks, craning his neck to look over the edge.

“It slipped,” Brendon says. He tries for a grin, but he thinks he’s flashing too much teeth.

Spencer cocks a hip, brings his arms up to hug his chest. It’s Spencer’s defensive stance, and Brendon’s fingers curl under, nails biting into his palms.

“Okay,” Spencer says, “Okay, so this is. This is really stupid, but Jon says you don’t know why.”

“Why what?”

“Why.” He tips his head back and to the side, staring off into the yard. “Why things between me and Jon are—were. The way they were.”

Brendon watches Spencer’s mouth, the way his lips thin. “No,” Brendon says, draws out. “No, I don’t know.” He’s never really _wanted_ to know, either. He’s sure if he’d pestered Jon about it enough he’d have given in and told him.

Spencer’s lips move, but Brendon can’t hear his words.

“What?”

“You,” Spencer says louder, clipped. “_You_, Brendon.”

“Me, um—what?”

“We fucking fought over you, you jackass,” Spencer says. “What did you think?”

Brendon blinks. He’d just. He hadn’t really thought _anything_. He’d just assumed it was a Ryan thing, because Spencer got sharp edges after Ryan had died. He’d gotten a quick-to-flare temper and hard eyes. “I thought. I didn’t know.”

Spencer hunches his shoulders a little and says, “Yeah, well. Now you do.”

*

Brendon had left, had followed Jon, because he honestly cared about Haley, and things had gotten awkward between him and Spencer, and he’d figured he’d give them a break. Maybe Spencer and Haley hadn’t been married, but they had an awful lot of history and dedication and love between them, and Brendon had fucked with their balance. Spencer isn’t, and never had been, the kind of guy who cheated.

They’d made a mistake; Brendon had let something happen he swore he never would—never _thought_ would, and he’d been paying for it in the stiff way Spencer’d held himself around him, the tight lines around his eyes and mouth, the worried glances from Haley.

So Brendon had left.

He’d packed a bag with an already ancient pair of jeans, some underwear, some t-shirts, and a book for the plane. He’d called Jon from over the Pacific, and he’d never looked back.

*

Brendon finds his missing shirt stuffed in between the cushions of the den couch, a wrinkled mess. He smoothes it out over his thighs and takes a deep breath and tries not to think about leaving again.

*

Brendon hasn’t dreamed about Ryan in a while, not since those first few months on Hawaii. They’d always been good dreams. Dreams of old concerts, dreams of other lives, of Ryan grinning, laughing, mad at Jon – mad in that particular way that meant he wasn’t really mad, skinny arms crossed and ridiculously sullen looking. Dreams of Hobo and then Archie, of long fingers and long limbs and guitars and harmonicas and ukes and tubas.

In this dream, Ryan’s eyes silently chide him.

In this dream, Spencer is at the kitchen table again, rooster lamp, chipped black porcelain, casting a defused yellow glow.

The house feels hollow and the room echoes Spencer’s soft breathing and when Brendon wakes up, he buries his fingers in Lem’s fur and holds on.

*

“You were in love with him.”

“What?”

Brendon leans back against the counter, curls his hands around the granite. “You. You were in love with him, with Ryan.”

“How.” Spencer clenches and unclenches his fists, and Brendon thinks maybe he’s going to punch him. “How did you come up with that?”

Brendon shrugs, stares down at his feet, his bare toes peeking out from under ragged hems.

Spencer laughs, but he doesn’t sound very amused. “I was never in love with Ryan,” he says.

It’s the way he says it. Brendon looks up. He breathes in deeply through his nose, stutters air out of his mouth, controls the tremors in his arms by white-knuckling the edge of the counter. “Jon?”

“Brendon.” Spencer’s eyes are dark. “Brendon, stop.”

“No. No, were you—”

“I was in love with Haley,” Spencer says carefully.

Brendon’s not sure if he has any right to feel angry, but he does. He says, “Fuck you,” and he pushes past Spencer and stalks out of the room.

*

Lem eats sticks and then yaks them up on the carpet.

“That’s really gross,” Brendon says.

Lem hunches over and coughs like something’s stuck in his throat, and Brendon’s thinking maybe they’re going to have to take him to the emergency vet. But Lem just hacks again, then jumps to his feet and wags his tail and noses Brendon’s hand, so. All systems are go.

Brendon snaps a leash on his collar.

Lem pulls Brendon down the front steps and across the lawn and Brendon’s sure deciding to walk Lem was a really bad idea, but then Lem hits the sidewalk and ends up a perfect gentleman.

He trots happily next to Brendon, head up and ears alert. Brendon’s never seen Spencer walk him. He wonders if it’s something Haley used to do, and he feels a lump form in his throat.

Brendon resolutely swallows it down and straightens up and says hi to everyone he passes.

He stops and talks with an old dude five houses down. Lem sits pretty and lifts a paw and Brendon marvels at his manners, because he’s always all over Brendon.

He waves to a pack of teenagers and they just stare at him, and Brendon panics for a second before realizing they’re just too cool to wave back. Brendon never really got over being a giant dork.

Spencer’s neighborhood is big houses stacked up against big houses, and it takes them a little over an hour to wind their way around back home.

Spencer’s Volvo isn’t in the driveway anymore. Brendon tries to tell himself he’s relieved.

*

Someone’s leaning on the doorbell. It’s the middle of the night – morning, 4 a.m. according to his digital clock – and by the time Brendon realizes it isn’t part of a dream, he thinks it’s been at least ten minutes. He’s sort of glad Spencer has chimes instead of a buzzer.

He stumbles out of bed and down the stairs and fumbles with the lock before he can even think, oh, hey, possible crazy stalker-killer at the door, but it’s just Spencer. Spencer, completely fucking drunk on the front stoop.

He’s tilting into the doorjamb, hair a sweaty mess around his flushed face. He grins, wide and loose, but the spotlight over the door shadows his eyes black.

“Forgot m’keys,” he says, and Brendon looks past him, sees the cab idling at the sidewalk.

“Forgot your wallet, too?” Brendon asks.

Spencer snorts, and Brendon rolls his eyes a little and grabs Spencer’s arm, helps him lurch unsteadily into the house. Brendon scrounges up money for the cabbie, shivering at the curb in his boxers and t-shirt.

It’s quiet when he gets back inside, and Brendon starts up the steps to his bedroom, hoping Spencer just passed the hell out somewhere. And then he trips over something laying across the hallway in the dark, clocking his forehead on the wall on his way down to the floor.

“Fucking _ow_,” he says, rolling over onto his back.

“Sorry, sorry,” Spencer says. Brendon can hear a hint of laughter under his words. “Sorry, are you okay?” He leans over Brendon, up on his hands and knees.

“Yeah.” Brendon doesn’t think he’s bleeding, at least.

Spencer pats his arm. He whispers, “Sorry,” again and Brendon sighs.

“It’s fine,” he says. He tries to sit up, but Spencer pins his shoulders, leans all his weight into him.

“No. No, Brendon, I’m _sorry_.”

“You’re drunk,” Brendon says. He doesn’t bother struggling, just lays there, brings his hands up to cradle Spencer’s elbows.

There’s a pause, like Spencer could possibly be in any shape to weigh his words. Then he says, “I’m drunk. I’m drunk, I’m not _stupid_.”

Brendon does push back, then. He pushes on Spencer’s chest and scoots backwards and says, “You’re drunk,” again, because listening to Spencer like this is not a good idea, he knows this.

“Brendon, Bren.”

Brendon can see the shape of him in the dark, fallen back on his ass, legs spread and knees up. He says, “Spencer.”

“I don’t know why,” Spencer says. His voice is sort of slaughtered, like he’s been laughing all night. “I don’t know why I can’t say it.”

Brendon shifts slightly, until he’s leaning against the wall, and he says softly, “You don’t have to.”

*

Brendon wakes up with a crick in his neck. He wakes up with a crick in his neck and a sharp, jabbing pain in his spine, and he’s too old, definitely too old to have fallen asleep on the floor.

He flutters his eyes open to find Spencer staring at him, face inches away. Brendon doesn’t know how early or late it is, but Spencer’s gaze is clear, his focus sharp.

Brendon croaks a dry, “Mornin’.” He’s on his side in the hallway, hand curled loosely in between their bodies, half his face mashed into the carpet. He wants to move, but he doesn’t.

“Ask me,” Spencer says. He sounds as awake as his eyes look, like he’s been watching Brendon for hours.

Brendon’s heart stutters. “What?”

“Ask me. What you were going to ask me before.” Spencer lays a hand over Brendon’s, covers all his fingers flat against the rug. “Ask me.”

Brendon closes his eyes again. He asks, “Were you in love with me?” and he wishes maybe his voice wouldn’t shake, but he can’t help it.

Spencer’s grip tightens. “Yes.”

*

Brendon borrows one of Spencer’s cars and drives out to his sister’s again. He calls from the road, and when she doesn’t answer he says, “Hey,” and, “I’m on my way over, if you’re there,” into her voicemail, and she’s waiting for him on the porch when he pulls up.

*

Lem knows his footsteps, and he knows he can get more treats out of Brendon than Spencer. Brendon’s a pushover. Brendon sees his shiny brown eyes and wants to promise him the world if he’ll just keep being that adorable _forever_.

Brendon comes home from his sister’s with a tin full of snickerdoodles and he sneaks one to Lem before dropping his keys on the table.

“You shouldn’t give him people food,” Spencer says. He’s standing in the doorway, arms over his chest, hip and shoulder pressed into the frame.

“Busted,” Brendon says. He slides the tin onto the counter, butts it up against Ryan’s rooster lamp. He wipes his hands on his thighs and watches Spencer out of the corner of his eye. He makes himself say, “So I figure I’ll book a flight home for Wed—”

“You can’t possibly be this dumb,” Spencer cuts in.

Brendon’s head snaps up, gaze following Spencer as he straightens and steps further into the kitchen. “I’m not—what?”

Spencer still has his arms crossed. He says, “So I’m in love with you.”

“You’re. Spencer.” Brendon mirrors his stance, arms over his chest. There isn’t anything hesitant in Spencer’s expression, for maybe the first time since Brendon had shown up weeks before. His entire face is daring Brendon to deny it.

“Brendon,” Spencer says, cool and collected, and Spencer _knows_. Brendon knows Spencer knows.

“I’m going to kill Jon.” Jon Walker is a sneaky double-crosser.

Spencer doesn’t move. Doesn’t twitch, doesn’t speak, doesn’t say this is all part of some _horrible, horrible joke_.

“I’m.” Brendon heaves a panicky breath and hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll be back.”

*

Brendon’s brand new phone rings as soon as he hits the main drag, and he picks it up with, “You’re an asshole.”

There’s a sticky, silent pause, and Brendon thinks maybe the girls are using Jon’s cell and that maybe Jon’s gonna kick his ass when he gets home. Then Jon says, “I can’t fix everything for you,” and his voice is a lot more sober than Brendon had expected.

“What?”

“I made it worse. Before,” Jon says, words uncharacteristically stilted, and Brendon has no idea what he’s talking about. Jon always makes everything _better_.

Jon says, “I’m trying, Bren, but you gotta make an effort here.”

Brendon flicks on his turn signal, jerks the wheel and pulls over onto the shoulder of the road. He presses his eyes closed. “I’m not—he can’t just do this, Jon.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” Brendon drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Because! Because he _can’t_.”

“Yeah, that’s a really sucky reason.”

Brendon mutters, “Your mom’s a sucky reason,” and Jon laughs.

Jon laughs, says, “So, hey, I’m teaching Thing Two how to sing _Time to Dance_, listen,” and his voice gets farther away as he says, “Dee, it’s Uncle Brendon,” and Brendon maybe gets a little hysterical when she fumbles through “aubergine dreams” in her five year old lisp.

*

“I don’t know who decided Jon was allowed to have kids,” Brendon says. The room is dark, but he can see the outline of Spencer sitting on the couch. He flicks on a lamp and Spencer squints over at him.

Spencer says, “I hate this house. It’s fucking spooky,” and Brendon thinks that’s a fair comment, since apparently now is the time for non sequiturs.

Brendon sits down next to him and says, “We aren’t famous anymore.” They aren’t, not really. Their last album dropped five years ago, and they’re barely recognizable without Ryan’s flamboyant presence.

Spencer nods. “My dog doesn’t like me.”

Lem’s sprawled across Spencer’s feet, only acknowledging Brendon with a tail thump, so Brendon thinks that’s patently untrue.

“Spencer. Spencer Smith,” Brendon says softly. “Your dog loves you.”

The corner of Spencer’s mouth twitches. “Yeah?”

“It’s also, um.” Brendon’s heart speeds up, and he can feel it throbbing in his chest. “It’s possible,” he starts again with slow, careful words, with heated cheeks and a fluttering in his belly, “that I’m in love with you.”

Spencer lets out a noisy breath. “Okay.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Brendon’s staring at his hands, clasped together in his lap, palms sweaty. He’d figured maybe this moment would be a little less awkward.

“Okay,” Spencer says again. “Are you hungry?”

*

Brendon sits in the middle of Spencer’s den and talks to Ryan. He says, “So.”

He says, “So I miss you.”

He hears Lem’s claws clicking on the kitchen floor.

He hears Spencer’s laugh drift down the stairs.

The silence left isn’t hollow at all.


End file.
